Welcome home
by TotalFanGirl221B
Summary: Sherlock stuff, my first proper fanfic. Enjoy :) Bear in mind I wrote this at 2 this morning, I was just in the fanfic mood :D
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

John sat in the flat. He looked round at everything; all of the books, Sherlock's chair, and the painted smiley face with the bullets all around it. All of these things reminded him of Sherlock. Wherever he looked it was just Sherlock. He could even see Sherlock shooting at the wall, he could see him reading the books and he could see him jumping in his chair while trying to solve a case. He wanted to leave, but he knew he had to stay; he had to face the reality, which was of course, the fact that Sherlock was dead. He didn't want to face it, Sherlock was his best friend; he wanted this to be all a horrible nightmare that he could just wake up from, but obviously, it wasn't. The truth was Sherlock had jumped from the building, Sherlock was dead, and John had to come to terms with it all. It was going to be hard, but he had to do it for himself and Sherlock.

He sat there thinking how much better Sherlock would be in this situation. Sherlock didn't care for emotions or feelings; he could shut himself off from the world in less than a second. He then started to wonder what if the tables had turned; what if John was in his place and Sherlock had to cope with John's death? Would Sherlock care? Would he be as upset as John? He tried to tell himself no because then he might be able to care less about Sherlock's death because he knew Sherlock wouldn't care if it was John, but he couldn't do it. He then remembered when Sherlock found out about Irene Adler and that she had died and how he took that, emotionally. Maybe it would be the same if it was John. Maybe it would be worse. This wasn't helping John get over Sherlock's death at all. He started to imagine life if he hadn't met Sherlock. He wouldn't be in this situation now, or would he? He could still be upset about his days in the army. Or he might've met someone else, and had a normal life.

John buried his head in his hands, trying to hold back his tears. He took deep breaths, in and out. He tried to calm himself down. Being in the flat wasn't helping him at all, he felt as though it was making him worse, but he didn't want to leave. He wanted to sit there forever in the hope that if he did, maybe Sherlock would just come back, and they could just slip back into their normal routine. But John knew it wasn't going to happen. John inhaled slowly. He gradually brought his head out from his hands and opened his eyes. He then stood up. He stayed stationary for a couple of minutes, just looking straight at everything in the flat. Everything had been kept the same, no one wanted to move any of Sherlock's 'experiments' or things because they felt it would be erasing him from their lives, which they just couldn't do. To some, Sherlock was a freak, but to some who knew him he was a hero, and to John he still was.

John took small steps towards the door with his head looking down at the floor. He brought it up and took one last look at the room he had once lived in with his best friend. It felt cold, normally it was so warm and cosy but everything there was gathering dust, nothing felt homely about it. John felt so much emptiness in his heart. He couldn't believe that Sherlock had died so fast and that days and months had gone by and still he couldn't come to terms with the fact Sherlock was dead. Everything was too fast, he just wanted more time. He sighed and then walked out, slowly closing the door behind him, leaving that life behind, which he hadn't wanted to do but knew it was something that needed to be done.

He stood outside on the streets for a few minutes. A tear rolled down his cheek as he breathed in the cold air. People walked past, like they were oblivious to John who was in tears. He tried to pull himself together. He rubbed his eyes, took one, deep breath and started walking down the street. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he had to get away from the flat. He wanted to go anywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

John was half way down the street when he tried to figure out where he was going. He had just been walking forward without any thought, so he could forget about the world, but now he had no clue where he was.

He walked up to a homeless man to ask for directions. He wanted to go back home. Not to the flat, to his new flat. He didn't live with anyone; he hadn't really spoken with anyone since what had happened. He still spoke with Lestrade and Molly. He rarely spoke to Mycroft, sometimes Mycroft would call to see how he was doing, but John was still angry at Mycroft and blamed everything on him. He hardly spoke to Mrs Hudson because she and Sherlock had such an amazing relationship; like mother and son, and John felt like an intruder and also knew that if he spoke with her then all the memories of Sherlock would come flooding back, not that they weren't already, but they would be worse and worse.

"Excuse me; you don't happen to know the way to Ashwood Street from here, do you?" John asked the homeless man, anxiously. Since Sherlock's death, John had become very socially awkward, and found it hard to speak to people.

The homeless man looked at him for a minute, not saying a word. John also looked at the man, he thought he recognised him from somewhere, but he didn't know where. "Do I know you?" John asked him, he asked it quite confidently as he was sure he knew this man. The man looked at him, he wouldn't answer. He just coughed and then pointed straight.

"If you go straight on and then turn left, left again and then just go straight, you'll be at Ashwood Street." The man spoke with quite a deep voice, one that John thought he recognised. John kept staring at him, until he had processed what the man had said and then came back to earth.

"Oh, oh right, thank you. Thanks." He said with an awkward smile. He then dug into his pocket and brought £50 out and handed it to the man. He had remembered how Sherlock had given the homeless girl a £50, Sherlock obviously hadn't done it out of kindness – he needed information, but John hoped maybe Sherlock had done it a little out of kindness, so he handed his money to the homeless man. The man shook John's hand and smiled. John smiled back and started to walk away.

After he had turned the first corner he paused. He thought about the homeless man, he knew he knew him from somewhere, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He also wondered why the man hadn't answered his question, because, if he didn't know him, why didn't the man just say no? Why did he change the subject? John then decided to go back, he went back round the corner to where the homeless man was sat, but when he got there, everything had gone. He looked around the whole place, but couldn't see any clue to where he might be. Then, he looked up and straight down the road he saw the man. He was walking quite fast, but he had a limp, so John knew he could catch up.

He walked quite slowly behind the man, trying not to be caught following him. He hid behind things when the man turned to look behind him, and he tried to be as subtle as he could. He was certain he knew this man, and that he was hiding something.

John followed this man all the way down the road, then, he saw something strange. The man stopped right outside 221B. John thought he was just looking at the place or something, he couldn't possibly live there. The man then walked to the front door, brought out a key which he then unlocked the door with. He walked in and shut the door behind him, but before the door had shut John quickly ran in, quietly so the man wouldn't know he was there.

John didn't understand. He thought maybe this man had taken his old room, above Sherlock's. But no, he had gone into Sherlock's. Was he a friend of Sherlock's? John was incredibly discombobulated. Sherlock didn't have friends. Well, that's what John thought anyway. This had to be one of Sherlock's friends. Otherwise, who was it? Was an absolute stranger going to sleep in Sherlock's flat because he found the keys, it's empty and he's homeless? There was only one way to find out. John followed the man into the flat and waited for him to walk into the kitchen. When he did, John walked in and slammed the door behind him. "Hello?" Shouted the man walking back into the living room "Who's ther-" He slowly stopped as he said his last word when he saw who it was.

"W-what? It can't be! I don't... I don't understand. Is this some kind of trick?"

"John, listen-"

"What?! What is going on? How are you here?! You died! You jumped off a building!" The homeless man was, in fact, Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John didn't understand at all, he wanted Sherlock to be alive; of course he did, but how? Was he going mad? Was Sherlock just a figment of his imagination?

"John, it's ok for you to be like this-" Sherlock tried to calm John down. John just kept screaming and couldn't take it. He quickly sat down before he collapsed. Sherlock didn't know what to do; he had never had a friend, he didn't know what to do in these sorts of situations. He sat down on the chair beside John and waited until John had eventually calmed down a little. "Are you alright now?"

"Just... explain, please." John said, he was trying to fight the urge to get out of his seat and run out of the flat like the mad man he thought he was.

"You're not going mad, honestly. I faked my death. That's how I'm here. That's how I'm alive." Sherlock said, as if it was a normal thing to do. John smirked as if Sherlock was lying.

"Are you kidding me? Are you seriously fucking kidding me?! How can you 'fake your death'? You jumped off a building! I saw the whole thing! I was there!"

"I am not joking, otherwise I wouldn't be here." John was still trying to stay calm, but it was getting incredibly hard. "Please, John, you can't ask how. I just did, and I'm here. That's all that matters."

"Three years." John said, not thinking straight.

"I'm sorry, what?" Sherlock seemed confused, but deep down he knew exactly what John was talking about.

"Three years I thought you were dead. Three fucking years and now you turn up 'oh, hi John. By the way, I faked my death but what's new with you?' you can't just turn up out of nowhere after three bloody years! I had to go back into therapy because of you. I couldn't cope! I still can't. Not once in those three years did you ever think to just pick up the phone and tell me you were alive?"

Sherlock sighed "all the time. It drove me crazy that I couldn't." Sherlock looked down at the floor.

"So why didn't you?" John was incredibly angry, he could see Sherlock was devastated, but he couldn't care less because he had been through worse, or so he thought.

"I wanted to, I honestly did. But the reason I had to 'kill myself' was because Moriarty had trained hit men after you, and if I was seen dead then they would leave you alone. I did all of this to protect you."

"So why leave it three years?"

"I had to be sure that they had gone before I could talk to you. I wanted to see you, there wasn't a day I didn't want to walk over to you and tell you I was here. Everyday I'd see you walk into this apartment and a tear would roll down my cheek because you didn't know I was right there. And I wanted to just run up to you and tell you, but then I would risk having you killed." Several tears start streaming down Sherlock's face. "Of course I wanted to tell you. I did, all the time. But I knew that if I did, you would die, and I couldn't let that happen." Sherlock sighed and buried his face into his hands; he couldn't bear to look at John because he knew he would cry even more.

John didn't know what to do. He did feel for this man, and he had been missing him, but he was still incredibly angry with him for what he did. He was trying his hardest not to cry, he didn't want Sherlock to know how hurt he was, and, no tears would even come out anyway, he was so sad, so angry that no tears were produced. John got up from his seat and walked to the door. He opened it slowly, trying to do it quietly so maybe Sherlock wouldn't notice he was going. But, the door creaked and Sherlock brought his head up quickly. "Where are you going?"

"Sherlock, I can't do this. You said you wanted to protect me, and I believe you, but if you think that we can go back to our everyday routine and forget that this ever happened, then you're wrong. I can't stay with you knowing that anything could happen. I couldn't cope for three years thinking you were dead, and here you are; fine. So now I know you're safe, I don't want to stay and watch you die for real. I'm sorry." He slowly lowered his head looking down at the floor.

"John, please. Please, you can't go. I don't want you to leave, not now. Please." Sherlock pleaded, but John walked out.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." He said as he walked out, shutting the door behind him and not even looking back because he knew that if he had he would have gone back to Sherlock. Back to that life, which he couldn't do, he knew he wouldn't be able to cope.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. He could see all the memories he and John once shared together and all of the times they spent with each other. They felt so real, like they were happening all over again. He slowly put his face back into his hands and cried more and more.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

John left the flat in a hurry. He quickly ran down the stairs and out the door, where he was going he didn't know. All he knew was that he had to get out of there. Out of that mad, insane place. He was so confused; he didn't know what was real and what wasn't any more. He still thought he was going mad, and that he was starting to hallucinate.

As he walked down the road he nearly fell over about five times. His vision had gone blurry; he couldn't concentrate on reality any more. Tears were streaming down his face, he had to stop, take a break from running away. He lowered his pace and eventually stopped to breathe. He put his hands on his knees and bent down to exhale. He then brought his head right up and inhaled all the air he could. He then slowly let it all out. He repeated this process until he eventually got himself together. Several people he didn't even know came over to ask if he was alright.

He had managed to calm down; get himself back to earth. He still had no idea what he was going to do. Should he go back and confront Sherlock? Was Sherlock even there, or was he just imagining things to make him feel better? If he was then it hadn't worked, it had just made him crazy. He tried to make the choice of going back to his flat or going back to 221B. He had no clue where to chose. He kept turning to go back to 221B, but then changing his mind after just a few seconds. He sighed and looked down at the floor. He cleared his mind and tried to think straight. It was incredibly hard, all of these questions running through his head were hard to ignore. But, he had learnt from Sherlock how to block things from your mind and get to the answer that really matters.

He stood, in the middle of the pavement, thinking. He brought his head up, took a deep breath in and turned to go back to 221B. He had to know what had happened. He had to understand. He had to know if he was just going mad.

He didn't rush to the flat, he walked slowly and calmly. He reached the door. He stood outside, just staring at it. He had started to rethink things. Should he go in? Was he just being an idiot? He tried to stay calm, but on the inside, he was just breaking down. He couldn't cope with this. It had been three years. Three years he thought Sherlock was dead, and now here he was; the same old him. Living.

John shook his head. "I must go in" he muttered to himself "I need to." He repeated it over and over. Then, he took a small step towards the door. All of these memories came rushing back; the day he first met Sherlock and then the first day he had walked in after seeing Sherlock die. He took another step. He felt now was too late to back out. He took another step, now reaching out for the door handle. He gripped onto it tightly. Then, he slowly lowered it and pushed the door open with his other hand. It opened, slowly, creaking a little. John didn't step inside straight away. He looked at the cold hallway, was he making the right choice? He kept muttering to himself about how it was, and how he had to see Sherlock. He took the step.

Sherlock was up in his room, playing the violin, as usual. To John it felt like nothing had really changed any more, he felt as though everything was back to normal, but he knew, deep down he knew, that nothing could ever be the same, it can't just go back to normal. Not after everything that has happened.

John walked up the stairs, trying to stay quiet, but Sherlock could hear the slightest creak that the old staircase made. "John?" He called from the room. John didn't reply he stayed silent, thinking maybe Sherlock would think it was nothing and carry on playing. But Sherlock knew. Sherlock didn't carry on, he waited for John to reach the top step and then to enter the room. John knew this, so he knew that there was no point in making an attempt to stay at the step until Sherlock continued to play.

John entered the room. Sherlock had his back to the door. He was stood near the window just above the street, staring outside. His piano was still on his shoulder and he was still holding his bow, but wasn't playing any more. "You came back, then?" Sherlock asked, pretending not to care very much.

"Of course, you knew I would."

"I actually didn't know, this time." They then stood in silence for the next few minutes. John walked slowly round the room and then sat down. He tried to make this as comfortable as he could. Sherlock then turned his head slightly, noticing that John had made himself comfortable, so he felt that he was able to talk to John normally again. "How have you been?" He asked, slowly making his way to the chair on the opposite side of John so he could face him.

"How do you think I've been?" John put it as nicely as he could; he was trying to be kind even though he just wanted to punch Sherlock for everything he had put him through.

"I know, I'm sorry. I did want to call you, honestly. I couldn't though; you knew that hanging around with me meant danger-"

"Yes, but I never thought that was going to happen, did I?" John said, getting a little angry.

"You can shout all you want, I deserve it. But I couldn't contact you because I was putting your life at risk, and I couldn't do that to you, John. Not to you." They sat in more silence again. John was a little touched by what Sherlock had just said; it meant that he actually meant something to this man, this heartless man who didn't care about anyone.

"How have you been? What have you been doing all this time?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him.

"Nothing, really. I've been staying here. I go outside most of the time, now that I'm not a consulting detective I have no money to live, that's why I was outside today. Thanks for the £50 by the way."

"Wait, nobody else knows you're still alive? That's crazy, they need to know! They need to know you're not a fraud!"

"John, the last time I spoke to people I ended up on the pavement, dead. Well, not really, but you know what I mean. I can't tell people that I faked my death; I can't go back to that life. I still take small cases, but nothing big. That's how it should be."

"But Sherlock-"

"John, I'm not going to tell people I'm alive! I didn't want you to know; now your life's in danger and it's all because of me!" Sherlock shouted at John and then closed his eyes. John had no idea what to say; he wanted to try and persuade Sherlock to tell at least Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson that he was alive, but he understood why Sherlock wasn't up for it.


End file.
